


Never Have I Ever

by meditationsinemergencies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bougie Champagne, Drinking Games, F/M, Kissing, Nervous Draco, Never Have I Ever, Oral Sex, Sex Positive Hermione, Shower Sex, Truth or Dare, Vaginal Fingering, marriage law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meditationsinemergencies/pseuds/meditationsinemergencies
Summary: After being matched fo marriage due to the new marriage law, Draco and Hermione spend their honeymoon trying to get to know one another by playing a few games.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 59
Kudos: 429
Collections: Seggy, round 12 2020





	Never Have I Ever

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2020 Dramione Duet. I absolutely loved this prompt and being a part of this. 
> 
> I am forever indebted to [adavison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adavison/profile) who not only is a wonderful human and friend but who also is the absolute best beta and helps me to be a better writer.

Hermione Granger glanced at the elaborate clock on the wall to her right.  _ 2 hours _ , she thought.  _ I’ve been married for two hours.  _ She glanced at her husband; he sat across from her on the sofa in their honeymoon suite. He looked so comfortable in such an exquisite place. Hermione felt as if Draco Malfoy truly belonged here among velvet cushions, crystal champagne flutes, and absurdly pricey champagne. She looked down at the glass in her hand, the drink within it—specs of gold flakes floated amongst the bubbles of the drink. She had yet to take a sip of it. Nervousness permeating through her entire being. She turned her attention back towards Draco. He had taken off his cloak, undone his tie, which both now laid on a chair nearby. Both had dressed well for the occasion, their arranged-by-law-marriage, but it hadn’t been an exactly happy occasion.

Draco had brought along his mother. Hermione brought along Harry. They served as their witnesses to their marriage. Truth be told, Hermione hadn’t wanted to get married to anyone anytime soon, and she didn’t exactly like the idea of the marriage law, nor did she agree with it, but she believed in the methods of the Ministry. She knew that Kingsley and Co. had worked endlessly to ensure that the matched couples were absolutely ideal for the other, absolutely ideal to produce healthy, magical offspring. Of course, when Hermione received her letter, she had thought there had been a mistake. The following day she approached Kinglsey about it. He, too, had thought it was a mistake when her magical gold line connected almost instantly with Draco’s silver line, but it hadn’t been; Kingsley stated that they’d run the algorithms five separate times, each time leading her directly to Draco.

Hermione believed in magic—she believed in its accuracy and its definitiveness, and, so, to her, if the Ministry’s algorithms put her with Draco then there must be something there. She spent the next day writing and rewriting a letter to him, but, lucky for her, she received a letter from him first. The letter had been simple: He asked her to join him for dinner to discuss their upcoming nuptials. She wrote him back confirming the date and that was that. 

At the end of the war, Draco was put on trial. It was gruelling and long and she, along with Harry, had to serve as witnesses in it. Hermione wasn’t sure what she was doing there: What did she know of Draco’s true character at this point in time? She felt as if she knew very little about herself, let alone someone that was her enemy in school. They’d asked her about his character in school. She hadn’t lied. Explaining the truth was a bit hard, it made Hermione feel just as ostracized as she had in school—bullied for her looks, her intellect, her blood. She simply explained that Draco hadn’t been nice to her, but, in all honesty, she hadn’t been nice to him either—she’d mocked him, she’d even physically assaulted him once, she was suspicious of him from day one. She made it clear that, in the end, when it came to prejudice, it was all around. 

The most impactful thing in the trial was Draco’s testimony when she learned of the things he saw and experienced from a very young age. She realized, then, how dark and misleading his childhood had been. He had been raised under the guise of prestige and purity, to only learn of how tainted and crass everything was, and how, to save his family, to save his  _ mother, _ he had had no choice but to follow the Dark Lord. 

Although her perception of Draco had changed, she’d made no effort in the months following his trial to speak with him or to reach out to him. She knew that he and Harry had begun to form a bond of sorts, both working as Aurors, but there was something there that caused her to avoid any event he’d be at and ducking down a different hallway when she saw him coming at the Ministry. She didn’t really know what it was, she thought perhaps it was the exposure of the trial, her confessions to her own cruelties towards him or his confession to his bleak life up to that point. Whatever it was, she hadn’t wanted to see Draco. 

Meeting him for dinner that night, she was quite anxious. She’d told no one about her match, initially. She’d pretended to be too busy at work to have the time to speak to anyone. As she got dressed for the evening, she’d wished she had at least told Ginny. She was pants at dressing herself sometimes, and she stared, for what felt like hours, at her wardrobe. She settled on a dress—one with a scarlet top and a cream tulle skirt that flared out. She wore sensible flats. True, she would dress for the occasion, but she wasn’t going to wear bloody high heels for it. She didn’t charm her hair; Draco knew what her hair looked like, she wasn’t going to put on a front concerning it. It was wild and there was nothing she could do about it. 

When she arrived at the restaurant, he was already there. He stood as she approached the table, and she was a little pleased to see that he seemed, well, nervous. She’d never seen him nervous before, but she could tell and this made her feel as if she just might have the upperhand in all this. She wanted to go into this process as open-minded as possible, but she also would stand her ground on what she wanted. He fidgeted with his blazer, stuck his hands in and out of his pockets, cleared his throat one too many times. She found that he’d ordered them wine, and she was delighted to see it was her favourite—a deep red Merlot. He nodded curtly at her, and she sat down at the table, immediately grabbing the glass of wine and taking a long sip to steady herself. If Draco seemed nervous, perhaps she could be the one who was calm and collected, and as it turned out, she was. 

At least, halfway through the meal, by the end of the evening, Draco had warmed up and gotten comfortable. They agreed upon a living space—hers, as she was unwilling to live in Malfoy Manor. They agreed upon a date—next month. They agreed upon finances—split accounts, as Hermione wanted nothing to do with Malfoy money.

Ultimately, they decided they’d see each other once a week up until their marriage; they’d meet at the same restaurant, share the same wine, and get comfortable in each other’s presence. 

She’d wondered if he would kiss her at the end of the evening, but instead, he shook her hand, as if they’d just signed off on a legal contract, which they sort of had. She spent the next week trying to figure out why she’d wanted Draco to kiss her so badly. True, he was very handsome, and, true, she knew they would have to consummate their marriage within seven-two hours of their wedding, and within two years they would have to conceive a child, but she hadn’t necessarily expected any desire on her end. She saw their marriage as a practical, legal thing—nothing more, nothing less. But over the course of their next three meetings prior to the wedding, she found that she did desire Draco. It was, at the time, a very visceral type of want. He was extremely handsome—tall, broad shoulders, striking with his sharp jawline and icy grey eyes. Hermione had always known Draco was attractive, that was part of the reason she'd disliked him so much. Hermione had found that, oftentimes, beautiful people did ugly things because of their beauty, as if it were an excuse to behave badly or cruelly as if it were an automatic pardon. 

She noticed that she was constantly thinking about him, and, at the end of each of their meetings, she wondered if he would kiss her, but he did nothing of the sort. This left Hermione feeling particularly concerned for their wedding night. 

***

Draco was a touch ambivalent concerning his pairing. His mother had convinced him that it was a very good way for him to help sway public opinion of himself and of the Malfoy family, which, Draco thought wasn’t a good way to look at it, he didn’t want to view his soon-to-be wife as a way to absolve his past sins. He found he was mostly unhappy because he was worried about how Hermione would behave and react towards him. He had been a total shit to her for so long. He’d watched her get tortured, for fucks sake. How was she now supposed to lie in the same bed with him at night? He also wasn’t keen on being told what to do, especially not by the Ministry; he knew there wasn’t anything to be done about it, and, given his history, he didn’t want to ruffle anyone’s feathers. 

The happy part...well, it was because he did think that, had they had a different starting point, he and Hermione could get on well. He admired her intelligence; he used to envy it, but she only pushed him in their earlier years to work harder. He was always just behind her up until their sixth year. He knew that the two of them would enjoy the same sorts of things—quiet evenings at home, reading, discussing literature and philosophy. He knew she was an only child, too. This was something he thought would work to their benefit. Only children grew up around adults and were used to long bouts of time alone. Draco craved the solace of solitude, and he imagined Hermione did, too. He found himself imaging them sharing a space quietly reading, no noise but the clink of a cup hitting its saucer, the soft grit of a spoon pushed into sugar, the crisp turn of a book’s page. 

At their first meeting, Draco allowed himself to admit that he was physically attracted to Hermione. He’d spent so much of his energy in their youth disliking her that he forced himself to focus on her flaws—magnifying them, so when he saw her walk into the restaurant, the scarlet colour of her top brought attention to the hues of her hair, a warm mixture of cinnamon and chestnut, he thought. It was the first time he’d thought of how beautiful her hair was. Yes, it was chaotically curly, frizzing in certain places, but it was also quite stunning. Thoughts of running his fingers along the edges of the spirals played in his mind. He appreciated that she was very much still Hermione. She hadn’t charmed her hair, she wasn’t wearing heels, she hadn’t even glamoured the scar on her forearm or the scar that ran up onto her collarbone. For a moment, he considered the fact that they both had scars that spread out, like spider webs, across their chests. He then chastised himself for finding comfort and congruity in something as dreadful as scars. 

Their meal had been pleasant, but he left it feeling as if he knew very little about Hermione. 

With each of their meetings, he found that their conversation teetered on small-talk, so close to breaking beneath the surface of really and truly having a conversation as Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. Instead, they spoke as if they _ hadn’t _ known each other since they were eleven, as if they hadn’t seen each other at their worst, at their most humiliating, at their most vulnerable. Perhaps, he thought, this was how she was going to cope with having to marry him. Skimming across the surface. 

By the end, several days prior to their wedding, Draco realized that he had no idea what Hermione wanted—not in life, not from him, not from herself. He hadn’t the faintest idea of how to move forward, and he certainly wasn’t sure how their wedding night was going to go. 

***

Hermione cleared her throat after taking a large gulp of champagne, “Doesn’t this all seem a bit...much for a, you know, law-arranged marriage?”

She watched as Draco took in a deep breath and looked around the room, “Yes, well, my mother seems to think  _ we  _ should treat it as normally as possible. If this were a marriage of…” He flitted his hand in the air absently, “traditional love and romance, then this is the type of place we would have stayed. So, here we are. It is a bit excessive, though. Gold flakes in champagne are absurd.” 

Hermione laughed softly, breathing it out through her nose. “True. I’m not quite sure of the point.”

Draco held up the bottle and examined it, “Just to prove how filthy rich someone is, I suppose. We _ drink  _ our gold _. _ ” He rolled his eyes, and Hermione found herself letting out a soft laugh once again. 

“At least you fit in quite nicely amongst all this glitz and glam.” She looked around the room as she said this before her eyes landed upon his. 

“What do you mean?” he inquired, his eyebrow quirked slightly.

“Oh, come off it,” she huffed. “Look at you!” With her free hand, she gestured towards him, her fingers close to touching him. 

“We’re no different in regards to fitting in this room,” he combated.

At this, she rolled her eyes, “Right. Okay. We are quite different in regards to that. You are lounging on the furniture. Relaxed. I sit here rigid. Terrified I’m going to spill some of this bloody champagne on it. Then I’ll have to hand out half my savings at Gringotts to replace it.” 

“That’s just in your head.”

  
“Is it though?” she quipped.

“Yes. Who gives a damn about this furniture.” Draco drew his feet up onto the sofa, still wearing his shoes. “It’s just furniture. It’s not important in regards to anything. It’s certainly not the most important thing in this room.” 

“What is then?” she asked with a sarcastic grin, hoping he wasn’t going to say her, hoping he wasn’t going to pretend that somehow this was romantic and idyllic.

He held up the bottle of champagne, nodded towards her, and took a swig from it. “This champagne, obviously.” 

Relieved at his comment she held out her almost empty glass to him. He leaned forward and poured her more.

Their knees were, at this point, very close to touching, and Hermione thought it odd that, aside from the quick peck at the ceremony, they had not touched each other since. She knew that within seven-two hours they had to touch; they had to have sex for Godric’s sake. Hermione was no prude, nor was she averse to sex—in fact, she quite enjoyed sex. It wasn’t that she was nervous about the act of sex, she was more so nervous about the fact that they barely had had any physical contact at all, that Draco showed very little interested in her, especially physically, and  _ then _ they had to have sex. 

***

Draco eyed her as she drank from her glass, still dressed in her wedding gown. She had chosen a very elegant creamed-white gown; a high boatneck with long sleeves and cinch at the waist that pooled out beautifully, and the back had a low scoop, revealing her shoulders, which led to small delicate buttons. She was stunning, Draco had no better way to describe her. 

However, despite how ardeny he admired her, he still felt uneasy and unsure of how and what she was feeling. He was also quite aware of how uneasy he felt. He had always illustrated such confidence in everything he did, but, now, he was lacking confidence, and, yet, he wasn’t willing to show her that. Not at all. He took a swig from the bottle again, and nodded his head, in revelation. 

He slipped his shoes off, leaving them lying askew on the floor, he pulled his legs back up onto the sofa, his arm resting upon his knee. “Let’s play a game, Granger.” He smiled at her and then corrected himself with a wink, “Granger-Malfoy.” He felt himself ease-up. Sometimes it was so easy to fall into a role, to slip into a familiar mask. 

  
He admired a few curls falling in front of her face as she cocked her head to the side, saying, “What type of game?”

“Never Have I Ever.” 

She furrowed her brow, “The drinking game?”

He nodded, “So, you’re familiar?”

“ _ Of course _ I’m familiar.” 

“Of course? I’m sorry I wasn’t aware that the brightest-witch of our age had time to play drinking games.”

She gave a half-smile and shrugged, “I never said I played. I said I was familiar.” 

He laughed at her comment. “The rules, of course, are that you make a statement concerning something you’ve never done before. If I’ve done said statement I take a drink. If I haven’t, I don’t. Vice versa. Easy enough?”

She nodded in agreeance, “Okay. Sure. But, what’s the point in playing?”

He leaned forward a little, lowering his voice, “Listen, we barely know one another outside of our misguided dislike for one another in our youth. Clearly, the Ministry thinks we’re well matched. Let’s get to know one another…” He paused and with a soft, warm voice continued, “I’d like to get to know you."

“Fair enough. You go first.” She nodded towards his glass.

Clearing his throat, he considered, tapping his finger lightly on his chin. With a mischievous grin, he said, “Never have I ever snogged Harry Potter.”

He watched with delight as she threw her head back and laughed. It was clear and bright, and it rang in his ears beautifully. After a few moments, she stopped laughing, slowed her breathing, glass still placed gently in her hand, and stared at the glass, matching his mischievous smile. He was amazed and amused that she was  _ not _ drinking. He was certain that at least once she and Potter had kissed.

With a smirk, she asked, “How long have you wanted to know that?” 

“I’d always wondered. I figured he had to be a helluva kisser for you to hang around him all the time. He can be such a blimey idiot.” He knew that she was aware of the friendship he now had with Harry, so he was comfortable jesting about his thoughts on Potter. 

“Well, no. I’ve never kissed Harry. To be honest, I did think about it once. It wasn’t appealing.” Hermione gathered her feet beneath her, resting her chin in the palm of her hand as she thought. 

“Your turn," he prodded. 

“I know that,” she said, snapping at him. “I’m thinking. Okay. Never have I ever played a game of Quidditch.”

Draco gave her a look of shock and took a sip. “Never? Why the hell not?”

She shrugged, “I hate flying. It terrifies me.” 

“It’s thrilling,” he replied.

“Hardly. You go.”

“Hmmm. You knew I’d drink with that one...let’s see: Never have I ever used a time-turner.” 

“How the hell did you know that?” she asked, alarmed. 

  
“Drink, Granger,” he commanded.

Raising her eyebrows she took a drink. “Answer me: How did you know that?”

He shrugged, “I read it in your file at the Ministry. There’s the paperwork where you were approved for one in our third year.”

“Did you have any right to do that?” she asked, with slight irritation in her voice.

“Probably not, but given how easy it was for me to just pluck your file, I don’t imagine it was a real issue. Don’t act as if you didn’t pull mine.” 

She scowled at him.

“See? You did pull it. We're even. So, what was it like? Using a time-turner? I've read some things about it, but, obviously, I've never used one."

The irritation slunk off of her just so as she began to speak, “Disconcerting at times. Thrilling at others. I used it far more than I was supposed to, if you want to know the truth.”

“What did you use it for?”

“Silly things, sometimes. I would go back to lectures again and again. Try to take in everything that I could. Sometimes, I’d take naps. Sometimes, I’d just spend my time in the library. Once, I went back and ate a tart that was particularly good that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What would you have done with a time-turner?”

He paused and thought, “Probably the same thing you used it for, to be honest. Would you ever want to use one again?”

She shook her head vigorously, “No. Not at all. It was hard to keep things straight. I felt physically ill a good bit of the time. I like being in one set timeline, you know?"

He nodded in understanding. “Whose turn is it?” 

“I think it’s mine," she peered down at her glass. 

“Right. Yeah. Alright. Go on.”

“Never have I ever skipped a class.”

Draco took a long drink from his glass before suddenly saying, his finger pointing at her. “That’s not true. Fourth-year, remember? You never came back from the infirmary when I hexed you. Pomfrey would have never taken that long to heal you. So,  _ technically _ you did skip class.”

She pursed her lips, “Yes. I suppose you’re right.” She, too, took a long drink of champagne, finishing it off and handing it out towards him to, again, refill it. 

“I was a bastard for doing that,” he said as he filled her drink, his tone soft with sincerity. “I’m sorry about that, you know.”

  
“We were children, Draco. We all said and did things we probably shouldn’t have.”

He sighed and leaned back onto the sofa, "Still. I could give you a billion excuses for my shit behaviour, but it doesn't matter. You never deserved any of the discontent and hatred I aimed at you." 

***

Hermione felt her heart rate quicken as he broached this subject. She hadn't wanted to rehash their past, but she also knew, somewhere in the recesses of her mind, that it had to happen. 

Hermione got up from her seat in the chair and sat on the couch next to Draco. Tentatively she reached out and let her hand rest against his, "I won't lie to you. It was hurtful, and it was quite terrible at the time, but, now, in knowing all that I do, I can't not take into consideration everything  _ you  _ also were going through. It's in the past, Draco." 

His hand was cool beneath hers and when she was done speaking she moved it away and back onto her lap. 

"It's your turn." 

He looked up quickly as if pulled from a trance. "Right." 

She leaned forward a little, clinking her glass against his. "Make it a fun one, husband." 

"Never have I ever...snogged a Quidditch player." 

She gaped at him. "What is with you and snogging? And quidditch?"

He smiled and laughed, "You said to make it fun! Both of those are fun things."

She rolled her eyes playfully and grinned, "I've snogged  _ mostly _ Quidditch players." She took a deep sip from the glass.

He raised his eyebrows at this, and she could have sworn that he seemed a tad bit envious. She thought it best to keep the momentum, "Are you jealous of that, Draco? I mean, you probably should be."

He gave her a questioning look.

She continued, "Viktor was an excellent kisser. Definitely be jealous you didn't get to kiss him."

He laughed. "Krum isn't my type. Too broody." 

She nodded her head in agreeance. "Quite broody."

The afternoon and evening continued as such with innocently probing questions. She worked her way around various statements that allowed them to learn small things about the other, and he reciprocated. She seemed to press with more intimate details, whereas he found more biting quips to throw her way:  _ Never have I ever drank Polyjuice. Never have I ever cried over a homework assignment. _ Statements that led to elaborate stories, a playful slap to his arm, or laughter between the two of them.

Their sips became smaller as the pair had had little to eat and were approaching a state beyond pleasantly buzzy. Draco cast a charm to check the time. “I think we should order food. Don’t you?”

Hermione nodded. 

“What would you like?” 

Not long after, the pair ate quietly together, and both began to feel the effects of the champagne slowly subsiding. 

Hermione felt a bubble of anxiety rise in her chest. Despite hours of this game, they still hadn’t broached the subject of sex. There had been jokes about snogging various people, but that was it. She was beginning to believe that Draco was actively avoiding the topic.

***

He was actively avoiding the topic. Draco was—and there was no better way to describe it—nervous. Over the past several hours, he began to understand certain things about himself in regards to Hermione—he had always  _ liked _ Hermione, but he had been raised to believe it was so taboo, so supposedly wrong, that he’d turned what began as a simple adolescent crush into something he disliked in himself and, thus, a discontent towards her. 

It wasn’t that he disliked her due to her parentage, her house, her association with Potter, it was that he was being asked, very early on, to reconcile with the way he was raised. He was far too young in their early years at school. He became more aware of it in their fourth and fifth years, but by their sixth year he was in too deep, more so his family was in too deep, with The Dark Lord, for him to think of anything but his own survival. 

In the year or so after his trial, he had seen Hermione a handful of times. She’d stop by the office to see Potter; he’d see her bustling about the halls of the Ministry; they’d once stood in line together waiting on a cup of tea, both, apparently, were working late and needed the evening caffeine boost. Draco was aware, in all these small moments, that there was something there, some affinity for Hermione, but he never had enough time to ponder what exactly it was. However, as he sat on the absurdly posh couch next to her, her in her wedding dress, the dress she wore to  _ their  _ wedding, he found that he truly and innocently adored the woman sitting next to him. In all the off-chance times he saw her, he found that his heart felt a bit lighter afterwards. 

Out of all the moments from the war that haunted him, witnessing her being tortured was the worst; it came to him in his sleep as nightmares. These nightmares were almost always the same. He watched her being tortured, and he  _ wanted _ to help her, to stop his aunt, to save Hermione from it all, but he was physically unable to move, to scream, to do anything. His mind-healer believed these dreams to be a manifestation of his guilt, that this had been a major turning point in the war for Draco, which was why it kept occurring. He had agreed with his mind-healer when this conclusion was made: It was Hermione’s grit and grace as she was being tortured. She never gave anything up; she never faltered: She was loyal and true and good, and Draco had never known anyone on Voldemort’s side to behave in such a sincere way. 

He learned that, while in each of his nightmares he was trying to save Hermione, all along, it was in that moment that she saved him.

So, yes, Draco was nervous for many reasons, but this being the main one: Despite the seemingly good time they were having poking and prodding at one another, he still didn’t know how Hermione felt about their marriage or about him. Many times he wanted to ask her outright, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The question in and of itself was far too revealing. It was much easier for Draco to slip into being sarcastic and cool, rather than expose himself and his concerns to her. 

After they ate, she left the room to change. He swallowed hard in her absence, knowing she was in the room they’d share that night, or perhaps he’d offer to sleep on the couch, but he knew that soon enough they’d share it. He knew she was undressing, removing her wedding gown. At this thought, he felt a pang of disappointment and regret; had this been a normal wedding, he would have wanted to slowly undress her, remove her wedding gown with delicate tenderness. She returned to the room in emerald green pyjamas; she’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and the way she looked was comforting to him. 

He was pleased when she sat down beside him again, but then she took a deep breath, and he could read the concern on her face.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

Hermione looked down and fingered the fabric on her pyjama bottoms, “Do you just want to get it over with?” 

He furrowed his brow, “Get what over with?”

With a deep sigh, she said, “The consummation of our marriage.” 

“Do  _ you _ want to just  _ get it over with _ ?” His heart pounded in his chest and he attempted to keep his voice steady.

“I guess so, Draco. You haven’t once touched me. Not even a graze of your hand against mine. We’ve played this game, this drinking game, for hours and the topic of sex hasn’t even been broached, when we  _ all  _ know that the purpose of the silly game is to talk about sex!” 

“I…” he began before she interrupted him.

“I know I am not who you would have picked to marry, but we are married now and we have to have sex at some point. So, if it’s not something you’re looking forward to, then perhaps we should just do it and be done with it. I’m sure there are ways for you to get...aroused, right?”

He didn’t mean to laugh, but he laughed. He was so shocked by the absurdity of her statement, by the worry that was plastered on her face.

“You can’t laugh, Draco! That’s horr—”

“You’ve misunderstood so much, Hermione.” Her name felt good on his lips, and he wished he hadn’t spent so much time not saying it. 

She began to speak again and he held up his hand and said, "Let me speak, please." 

He, again, found that he wanted to laugh, this time at the face she was making. He knew it was quite hard for Hermione Granger to be quiet when she didn’t want to be. She motioned with her hands, indicating that he could continue with what he wanted to say.

For a moment, Draco shut his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the sofa. He breathed slowly out through his nose. “This isn’t easy for me to say. For so long, I have been seen as someone with such confidence, such arrogance, that it’s easy for me to pretend as if nothing makes me nervous or anxious. That’s...that’s not true. I’m quite anxious, quite often. It’s all a farce, all a face I put on; it’s just me constantly performing. I’ll admit, however, that I do not want to continuously perform for you. I want to be...authentic. I suppose that’s the best word for it.”

“....okay,” she said with a sense of uncertainty.

With one big breath, he said, “You make me nervous.”

It was Hermione’s turn to laugh, “I make you nervous? Me? How in the world?”

He nodded, “Yes. You do. Come on, Hermione. You’ve got...so much going on. You’re absurdly intelligent, compassionate, driven, well-loved by so many…” 

“That’s nothing to make you nervous,” she said with a soft smile.

He took his hands and pressed the palms of them against his face, rubbing them up and down. 

“Merlin. I never thought… Look, Hermione. I  _ like y _ ou—which seems like the most bloody ridiculous thing to say to your wife on your wedding night.”

Hermione’s mouth tightened and she seemed to be chewing on the inside of her cheek. “What do you mean by that exactly?”

“What I mean is that I think...I’ve always liked you, always admired you, but liking you was never conceivable, but now...now it  _ is  _ conceivable, but after…well, everything? Everything I’d said and done or, in some cases, not done. Why would you reciprocate those feelings? This is a marriage of necessity not want.” 

“Draco, I—”

“Hold on. For just a few more moments. I haven’t approached you physically because I wasn’t sure how you felt about me or  _ that _ or how to even proceed. I mean, fuck, it’s more than just that, too.”

“What else is there?”

He leaned forward and poured them each a fresh glass of their celebratory wedding champagne. “Let’s keep playing.”

“Right now?!” she exclaimed in confusion and indignation.

“Just for a bit. Please?” 

***

She glared at him suspiciously, but she took the glass from him regardless. “Fine. I get to go first though.” 

He nodded in agreeance, “That’s fair.”

Lifting her chin up just so she said, “Never have I ever had sex in a public place.” 

She eyed him, a bit shocked, and a bit untrusting. There were always rumours of the wild and risque nature of Slytherin students. She was certain that she was married to the philanderer of Hogwarts, and while Hermione enjoyed sex—she did not shy away from it, and had never allowed herself to be shame by sexist stereotypes and biased cultural norms—she couldn’t help but bit an uncertain of how she, bookish-Hermione, would compare to the likes of Pansy Parkinson or Millicent Bulstrode. 

“Were you expecting me to drink?” he inquired with a smirk.

“Honestly? Yes. You go.”

“Never have I ever fooled around in the library.” 

Hermione felt herself flush a deep red, and she took a quick sip from her drink.

“Hermione! The library is sacred,” he said with a chuckle, putting emphasis on the last word.

She joined him, their laughs feeding off the other. “Okay. Okay…” she said as she tried to control her breathing, “Never have I ever had sex with a Slytherin.” 

She eyed him, watching him closely, and nudged his glass towards him. “You have to drink, Draco. That’s the rules.”

He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, “I’ve never had sex with a Slytherin.”

Hermione scowled and her mind began to whirl. Had he only had sex with older women outside of Hogwarts? Was that some odd pureblood tradition? Or was he simply lying to her? 

He took a deep breath and prefaced his next statement, “This is a big one, ok?” She nodded, curling her legs up underneath her in anticipation. Draco licked his lips, “Never have I ever had sexual intercourse.” 

She felt her jaw drop absent-mindedly and she closed it quickly again, raising her glass to her lips to take a drink. “I don’t mean...but...I thought...Slytherins…”

“Yes, well... I’m not sure how or why those rumours got started, but they aren’t true.”

“Huh…” 

“Pureblood values are extremely conservative and, as we know, can be quite prejudiced. I was raised to believe that it was morally wrong to have sex with someone I did not intend to share my magical-bond with, someone I didn’t intended to continue my bloodline with. Not to mention, when I was sixteen my father was imprisoned, I was being asked to break Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and I was set with the task of murdering Albus Dumbledore. When I was 17 I was a prisoner in my own home. Then there was the remainder of the war. Then I was on trial. Then I was busy clearing my name and training to be an Auror. Then the marriage-law happened. I never had a chance to...date anyone.” 

Hermione realized that she’d never quite thought of this before. She, too, hadn’t had a lot of time to be a teenager, but she had had significantly more time than Draco. Viktor had taken her to the Yule Ball, she continued to see him up until the summer before her sixth year. In her sixth year she spent time with Cormac to make Ron jealous, and then at the end of the war, she had Ron up until they realized that they were better off as friends. After that, there was a stretch of time before the Marriage Law was enacted when she went on several dates with different wizards. 

Hermione beamed, “I've an idea.”

“What's that?”

“Let's play a different game. Truth or dare.”

Draco let out a deep laugh, “Okay...well, erm...truth, then.” 

“Chicken,” she grumbled under her breath with a wink “What is, specifically, something you like about me?”

He rolled his eyes, “Narcissist. Hmmmm. Your know-it-all-ness. Truth or dare.”

This time she rolled her eyes at him, “Whatever. Dare.”

“Fucking Gryffindors. Alright. I dare you to….” he paused, tapping his finger against his chin.“Whisper something in my ear, something perhaps you've wanted to say but haven’t.

She leaned forward, pressed her lips gently to his ear, he smelled like the air on cold mornings—crisp and fresh. "I've been waiting for you to kiss me since our first dinner." Immediately, she pulled back, examining his face, and missed his warmth instantly. 

“Really? The first dinner. Why?”

“I don't know. A lot of reasons I suppose. You're quite handsome. You were to be my husband. From the beginning of all this something in me woke up, and I simply  _ wanted  _ you. There was no rhyme or reason for it. It just was. You just were.”

Their eyes met for a beat, skimming the others. Hermione whispered, “Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

She balked a laugh, “You are such a chicken! Okay… have you thought about kissing me?”

Quickly, Draco said, “Yes. Truth or dare.” 

Her eyes narrowed playfully at his response and said, “Truth.” 

“Do you _ actually _ like me?” He leaned into the word “actually” for extra emphasis. 

Hermione smiled ruefully, “Yes.”

He waved his hand towards her, “Elaborate.”

“Nope,” she said with a shake of her head. “You asked  _ one  _ question. You get  _ one _ answer. Truth or dare.”

He took a deep breath and finally gave in, “Fine. Dare.”

“I dare you to stand up and hug me.”

“Hug you?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes. A hug. You are familiar?” Sarcasm dripped from her tongue. 

He gave her a look, “Of course I'm familiar with what a—don't be so insufferable.”

They both laughed, and he stood up, still in his suit, sans his shoes. He gave her a look that indicated for her to get up, too. 

He stood idly in front of her, looking down at her. He hadn't noticed before how much shorter she was. He waited for a moment, expecting her to hug him but then realized, no, this was  _ his  _ dare. 

He stepped forward, a small step, closing the gap between them, and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her into him. He felt her arms follow suit and slip around his midsection, her hands resting against him, her cheek pressed to his chest. He shut his eyes and just let himself feel the warmth of her against him, to breath in the soft scent of citrus and honeysuckle. It was a warm smell, a bright smell. It reminded him of the late spring, which made his heart skip in delight—he had always loved spring ever since he was a small child, he loved to see green buds pushing up through winter's dirt. 

He pulled away from her slightly, and her head came up off his chest. She smiled sweetly at him. 

Looking down at her he asked, “Truth or dare.”

“Hmmmm,” she mused. “Truth”

“How good did it feel to smack me that time in our third year?”

She chuckled under her breath, “Well, at the time it felt  _ quite  _ good.” She moved her arm from around him and brought her fingers tentatively to the side of his face, the side she'd slapped all those years ago. She let the pads of her fingers playfully tap against his jaw and cheek, where there was now stubble. 

He teasingly asked, “Are you going to slap me now?”

Her eyebrows raised, she replied, “Not unless that's something you're into.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe you set me up for that when you slapped me back then.” He laughed at his own comment and pulled away and out of her embrace, and watched as she shook her head at him. 

Hermione moved back to the couch and sat down, picking up her glass and having a sip. “Truth or dare.”

He sat down, too, much closer to her than he was before.

“Dare.”

“I dare you to take off your bloody suit! Get comfortable. Relax. We're going to be here for the next several days. Might as well loosen up.”

“Fine. Fine. It’s a damn fine suit though," he said with a smirk, gesturing to his body. He began to undo the cufflinks on his shirt sleeves. When he went to get up, he rested his hand upon her knee and said, “I’ll be right back.”

He walked into the bedroom and saw her dress hanging across a chair with her shoes. He laid his clothes next to hers and pulled on a pair of running shorts keeping on the undershirt he was wearing. 

For a moment he imagined them together in bed. Her hair against the soft sheets, her sweaty and warm beneath him. He shifted his thoughts, as he felt himself becoming aroused. 

As he walked back into the sitting area of their hotel suite, he felt his nerves increasing. Eventually, he had to kiss her or be kissed by her.  _ Really  _ kiss her. Not the chaste peck at their wedding. Draco wasn’t a prude. He was not ignorant to sex and the bells and whistles; he simply felt ill-equipt. He felt that he didn't have enough of the youthful snogging sessions with hands and mouths everywhere. Sure, he had a few. And once, immediately after the war, he and Pansy almost had sex—more so to just feel thrilled that they were alive and free from Voldemort. They didn't. 

He was worried he wouldn't live up to Krum or Weasley or whomever. He was quite grateful that he didn't have Potter to live up to at least. He took a deep breath and puffed himself up. Reminded himself that she  _ did  _ like him. Reminded himself that he should be confident. Confidence was good.

He walked back into the room, “Truth or dare, Mrs Granger-Malfoy.”

“Truth," she said with a wide smile. 

He sat beside her, leaning into her now. His arm against the back of the sofa, one leg bent in, his bare toes pressed into the fabric of her pyjama pants. 

He didn’t want to ask her this. He didn’t want to seem needy, as if he were fishing for compliments, but,  _ fuck _ , he was. He needed it. Needed to hear her say it. 

“What is it that you like about me?”

Hermione hesitated, tugging her bottom lip into her mouth with her teeth in thought, “Well, you're very intelligent. That's quite important to me. I feel I could present you with any topic and you'd want to talk about it. You are a learner; you want to learn. You are loyal. Hmmmm. I thoroughly enjoy our banter, the quick-wittedness. And, honestly, you're quite funny. I like how easily you make me laugh. Not to mention, it's stupid how handsome you are. Sometimes I look at you and feel devastated by it. How can anyone be so handsome?” She made a face at this as if she was truly annoyed at how attractive she found him. 

He felt himself blush slightly at her words. 

“Truth or dare,” she asked.

"Truth."

Her voice was low, "Are you  _ at all _ physically attracted to me?”

He gave her an incredulous look. He supposed, however, that perhaps he was not alone in the need for affirmation. 

With a clearing of his throat, he drew his hand up to her cheek, and let his thumb graze against her bottom lip. He nodded wordlessly and thought,  _ yes, Merlin, very much so _ , with his eyes fixed on her lips. He wanted to kiss her, and he was certain she wanted him to kiss her, but there was just enough hesitation for him to not tilt his head down, to not gently rub his nose against hers, to not press their foreheads together. 

His fingers trailed down her neck and he spotted a few inches of her scar peeking out through her top, crawling up her collarbone. He pressed one finger to it gently, almost non-existent. Quietly he asked, "Is it sensitive?"

She nodded, her eyes on him with rapt attention, as his index finger traced what of the scar was exposed. She leaned forward and touched his chest with the tips of her fingers, mimicking his gentleness. 

"Is yours, too?" 

"Yes." His voice was almost a whisper, and he realized, then, that she'd leaned into him, their faces mere inches apart. He could feel the tickle of some of her hair, springing out-of-place, and he had the odd sensation of it reaching and seeking him out. 

His throat began to feel dry, and he swallowed hard before speaking again, his eyes still on her scar. "Dark magic...ill-intentioned magic, it lingers, you know. It doesn't ever dissipate." There was sorrow in his voice, an apology for everything, and he hoped she understood.

Hermione moved her hand from his chest to beneath his chin, her fingers pressed against him, willing him to meet her gaze. The moment their eyes met, he felt warmed and comforted and  _ okay _ , and this was good. 

He watched as her eyes closed, her dark lashes against her cheeks, and he felt her lean into him: her hand dropped again to rest upon his chest, her forehead pressed against his. 

It only took him a small, almost minute, shift before his lips were pressed against hers. She was warm and tasted of champagne when she parted her lips. He felt her breath on his own mouth, and he, too, parted his lips in reply. Their lips met again and again. Draco took her bottom lip in between his and nipped at her gently, before he slipped his tongue tentatively against hers.

***

Hermione enthusiastically explored his mouth with her tongue, letting it languidly caresses his bottom lip and then his tongue. Her lips began to feel swollen and raw, and she realized that they'd been kissing for quite some time. Beneath her hand, she felt the beating of his heart, strong but much quicker than what she'd consider normal. Overcome by him, she had wanted to feel the warmth of his skin, and she allowed her hand to move down to the hem of his thin undershirt, slipping it beneath the soft cotton. Her hand went like a whisper up his stomach and to his chest. She felt soft curled chest hairs beneath her fingers, and she let her nails scrape lightly against his skin. Beneath the pads of her fingers she felt his scar, soft smooth dips in jagged lines. 

She noticed that at her touch he momentarily stopped breathing, and she could only feel the beating of his heart beneath his scarred skin. 

Hermione opened her eyes when she felt his lips move away from hers, but closed them again when he placed a kiss to her collar bone, the highest point of her scar.

When he raised his head to look at her, she knew that something had changed in those few moments. An unspoken acceptance and trust of the other, willingly and, Hermione found, gratefully. 

She hadn't known what to expect when they were told of the new law. The decimation of wizard blood, the rise of divorce, the lack of children being born. Yes, she'd put her faith in the Ministry, but when she matched with Draco she did have her doubts—that was only natural, but as her fingers rested against his scar, still tender after all these years, blasted across his chest, his kiss lingering on her lips, she quite literally could feel magic—as Kingsley had said, each time they ran the algorithm, Hermione's gold line found and connected with Draco's, winding through the mass of names, not stopping to consider others, not looping back around to consider someone else, moving straight to him. She felt as if her whole body had been pulled into him.  _ No, not pulled, _ she thought. No, she had melded with him. 

Hermione leaned in and kissed him again, moving closer to him. Happily and eagerly he accepted her onto his lap, her straddling him, perched above him. Draco was willing to admit that he enjoyed looking up at her; to be beneath her gaze and beneath her body felt like a gift.

It didn't take long for their kissing to become something less tender and something more intense. Draco kept his hands firmly planted on the thickness of her hips, but his want was evident. As was hers, as she ground her body against him, pressing her chest to him. His lips found a place in the crook of her neck, and he groaned, "I don't want to rush this. Is it ok if we don't rush this?"

He felt her nod as she said, "Of course it's okay. Do you want to stop now? We can."

"No. No. I simply want to enjoy you.  _ Fully _ enjoy you."

The pair kissed for a long while. His hands on her hips. Her hands on his shoulders. Occasionally, his hips would instinctively jerk up against her, and she'd gasp, which sent chills down Draco's spine.

Hermione pressed her lips to Draco’s ear, “Let’s go get in bed.” She climbed off of him slowly, tugging his hand, so that he’d get up off the couch and follow her. She noticed that he laced his fingers between hers and she smiled to herself as they walk to the bedroom. 

***

Entering the bedroom, the large, plush bed awaiting them, Draco made his way to the left side. Hermione cleared her throat, "I'm sorry, but that's definitely my side." 

Draco spun around and made a face at her, "What? No. I always sleep on the left side."

Hermione gave him back the same face he'd just given her. "So do I."

He tapped his foot, looking around the room, and suddenly said, "I'm left handed! It only makes sense for me to sleep on this side."

"You are not. You do wand work with your right hand." 

Smugly he looked at her, "Well, actually I'm ambidextrous. I write with my left hand." He felt as if he'd won the argument, the side of the bed he wanted, and that he'd made himself seem slightly impressive. 

Hermione let out a short staccato of a laugh, "Right, well, since you're ambidextrous, you'll be fine on either side. The left is mine." 

After a few moments she added, "Please." 

Draco rolled his eyes, and began walking to the other side, "Fine. Fine."

After they playfully teased one another about their at home sleeping arrangements—Draco suggested they each get a twin bed, so they could both sleep on the left side; Hermione suggested Draco get over it; they both laughed at their silly minute quarreling, they found themselves lying side by side. Their arms were touching. Their fingers reached out to find each other, barely brushing against the other's hands. Hermione eventually rolled onto her side, letting her hand rest on Draco’s torso—his skin was warm, not too firm and not soft, either. The room was dark, and she found it thrilling to have him there in bed with her, his body so close to hers. “Let’s play another game,” she suggested.

She felt the rumble of his laugh beneath her hand, “Who knew we’d spend our honeymoon playing a bunch of games.”

At this comment, she, too, laughed. “This one won’t have as much talking, I don’t think.” 

“Oh?” he asked, and she heard a mixture of thrilling excitement and nervousness in his voice, his voice a touch higher than usual, the sound of a smile on his lips. She couldn’t help but be excited by the idea of making Draco Malfoy nervous. She made Draco Malfoy nervous. 

“I’m going to touch various parts of your body that I am particularly enamoured with, using my hands and mouth. On a scale of one to ten—ten being the highest—tell me how greatly you like or dislike my touch. Easy enough, right?”

“Do I get to do the same to you?” he quickly inquired. 

“If you’d like to,” she responded softly, feeling pleased and excited at his eagerness to reciprocate. 

He moved his hand so it rested upon her neck gently. “I very much want to.” 

She smiled to herself, knowing that, in the darkness of the room, it was unlikely he could see her smile. “Let’s get started then.” 

Hermione straddled Draco—her knees positioned on either side of his hips. She bent down and kissed his lips softly; she pulled away for just a moment and he responded, “Ten.” 

She laughed and replied, “A ten already?” 

She felt him shrug his shoulders, and she moved her mouth to his jawline and then to a soft spot below his ear, finally her nose pressed into the crook between his shoulder and neck. To her, he smells faintly of parchment and leather, a touch of a rich, warm wood she can’t quite place, but beneath it is something cool and crisp, perhaps mint. She heard him mumble another ‘ten’ and she couldn't help but smile. Sitting back up, she let her fingers tenderly touch his face, the pads of her finger-tips tracing the contours of it—his eyebrows, the length of his nose, down to his lips. She could make out his features in the darkness, and she admired him from this angle, his eyes shut, his body relaxed. He didn’t seem like the boy she knew all those years ago, no part of him seemed to harbour any hidden cruelness. 

Hermione worked her way down his body, noting the way he groaned an almost incomprehensible ten when she would nibble against his skin. She let her fingers move up his shirt, onto his stomach, and over his chest, her nails gently raking against his skin. 

***

As she explored him with her lips and tongue, her fingers and hands, he felt inexplicably relaxed. Yes, he was absurdly aroused, but, aside from that, he felt light and free—free from his past, his insecure thoughts. He felt as if nothing mattered except the moment he was currently in, and that felt so fucking good to Draco. There was no Slytherin and Gryffindor, no battle for house points, no right and wrong bloodlines, it was just tonight; it was just this bed with its soft sheets; it was just the gold-flaked champagne, it was just Hermione Granger. Perhaps, he wondered, it had always been her. 

When her lips found him, hard, thick, and leaking for her, he thought he’d explode within minutes. Warm and soft, her mouth ran down the length of him. She pulled away momentarily to ask him, on a scale of one to ten how it felt. He barely got out the words “Off the fucking charts," and he felt her deep, throaty laugh, reverberate against him. With her hand, she gently cupped his balls and squeezed them tenderly, while her tongue laid flat against the tip of his cock.

At one point, he attempted to pull her up, to guide her towards his mouth, so he could kiss her, so he could touch and taste her, but she batted his hand away, and he let his head fall against the pillow and allowed himself to be pleasured. 

When she began to suck on the head, her hand stroking the base of his cock, he felt such a sense of physical and emotional release, bursting with a satisfied cry into her mouth. He shuddered as she let her mouth slowly move along him, her tongue lapping at the orgasm remaining on his cock. 

Her head rested against his belly, while his fingers idly played with her hair. “How are you feeling?” she asked him, and he felt her warm breath against his skin. 

“Utterly fantastic.”

“Good,” she replied, and he could feel her smile against him.

In a post-orgasmic bliss, Draco allowed himself to enjoy her lying on him. He then asked her to lie on her back. He situated himself next to her and pressed his lips to her forehead sweetly, letting a hand rest upon her waist. His lips then moved down to meet hers, she still tasted faintly of champagne and something vaguely salty which he recognized to be his orgasm. He kissed her greedily, his tongue running against hers. Hermione moaned softly when his hand cupped one of her breasts. It felt heavy and satisfying in his hand as if it fit perfectly, and he wanted to laugh at himself for his overly romantic thoughts. Her nipple had grown taut beneath his hand, and he twisted it experimentally. “Number, Hermione?”

"Seven.” 

“Seven?” he asked with feigned-exasperation. He eased up on her nippled and she quickly said, “Five now.” 

He laughed low then twisted her nippled roughly between his thumb and index finger and was delighted when he heard her say, “Merlin, yes. That’s the ten.” 

He moved his body down the bed, his head placed at her chest. With one hand still on her breast, toying with her nipple, he let his tongue run against the other, feeling it harden at his lick. He relished in hearing her breathing out numbers as he worked his way around her body, peppering it with kisses and licks and tugs. Finally, after some time, he found himself at her centre. He sat on his heels between her legs and said, “Tell me. Please. What you...what you like.”

Hermione cast a charm to light the candles in the room, and he felt immense joy at seeing her in the dimly lit room. She spoke seductively and quietly, “May I show you?”

Draco’s heart rate jumped at her words, and he swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly quite dry. “Gods. Yes. By all means.”

She sat up, leaning against the headboard, her legs fell open easily. With one hand she reached for Draco, grabbing his hand and pulling him closer to her. He watched with rapt attention as she slipped her middle and ring finger inside her and pressed her thumb against her clit. Her mouth opened, and she moaned loudly as she began to move her fingers. “You have to…” she trailed off, letting her eyes shut and her head lean back against the headboard. "Curl your fingers just so."

Draco felt a tinge of arousal in his belly, and he was torn between wanting to make her come and wanting to watch her make herself come; he had no idea which one he wanted more. 

Hermione then grabbed his hand with her free one and placed it on her breast, “Tug hard. Twist hard. Please…” He did and with his other hand reached down between her legs to circle her clit with the pad of his thumb gently pressing against it, allowing her to pump her fingers into herself harder and faster. 

He looked down at her opened thighs, their hands on her cunt, and he glanced down the length of her lovely legs. He noted that her toes were curling, gripping at the sheets, and he knew that she was about to come. He turned back around to watch her unwind before him like a spiral of her hair. With a surge of certainty, he twisted her nipple roughly, and he noticed her thighs trembled when she came.

He moved his finger away from her clit and gently wrapped his hand around her wrist, pulling her fingers out of her warm sex. Eagerly, he slid his own two fingers into her, slowly pumping into her, letting her moans build back up after her orgasm. He curled his fingers inside her, and with a quirked eyebrow asked, “Like this?” She nodded in affirmation, and he moved his fingers, hitting the delicate spot within her. Looking at Hermione, he saw she had brought a hand to her face, her teeth biting the palm of her hand, whimpering as he moved his fingers inside her. Positioning himself, he was eye-level with her centre, he let his tongue glide teasingly over her clit, and he listened as she keened with each lick. 

Draco had no idea how long he spent with his cheek pressed to her inner thigh; he didn’t mind, his fingers had slowed and pulled out of her. His hand gripped onto her inner thigh as he ran his tongue over her labia and into her cunt, fucking her with it. When she did finally come again, he had found he’d grown hard and had been rutting absent-mindedly against the bed, and he came on the sheets, hot and sticky against his stomach. 

Later, Hermione fell asleep in his arms, her hair tickling his nose, her spring scent filling him up. Eventually, he fell asleep, too. 

When dawn broke, he found himself on his side with a warm body curled behind him. Hermione’s hand rested on his waist, one of her legs positioned comfortably between his, and, with his own hand, he touched hers, intertwining their fingers. For some time, they laid like that, and he wasn’t sure if she was awake or not until he felt her lips press gently between his shoulder blades. Gingerly, he rolled over to face her, the sleepy smile she wore more endearing than he’d anticipated. 

They separately got up to use the loo and brush their teeth before they made their way back to one another. When Draco emerged from the bathroom, Hermione was sitting up, the sheet pulled up to just cover her breasts, the morning light pressed against her shoulders. Her hair was wild—certain parts were sticking out in a knotty mess, other curls were falling perfectly against her skin. He thought to himself how lucky he felt to be married to her. The fact that it was an arranged marriage didn’t even cross his mind. 

Draco didn’t walk over to the bed timidly, there wasn’t a hint of insecurity in him; he woke up feeling confident and, dare he say, a bit cocky. He wanted Hermione—to feel her beneath him, to hear her mew and gasp from his hands and mouth and cock. He wanted his wife, and she wanted him, and that security was all he needed to stalk towards the bed. 

***

As he walked towards her completely naked, Hermione admired his body and let her eyes linger on his long cock that had hardened and bobbed against his thigh as he walked. He sat next to her on the bed, one hand resting on the other side of her. Leaning forward he kissed her lips softly as if he were making sure she wanted him, this kiss was different somehow, this kiss felt like something between old lovers: someone you knew inside-out. It felt like saying good morning and good night. 

She did want him, desperately so. She kissed him back fiercely, resting her hands on his shoulders and pulling him closer to him. The feel of him on top of her was perfect, a comforting heaviness. Spreading her legs, she felt his hips settle between them, and she felt his fingers dance against her belly. 

“Are you ready?” she asked, her voice husky and low.

“Merlin, you’ve no idea. Are you?” 

She nodded and bucked her hips up towards him slightly, “Mmmmm, absolutely.”

He smiled down at her. “Good.” His fingers moved to her centre, where she knew she was wet and wanting, even without him touching her. 

***

He let his fingers slip inside her until he was simply too eager to wait any longer. Lining his cock up with her cunt, he let the thick head rest there for a moment, the anticipation spread through him, to feel her there, right at her core, knowing the heat, the wetness, the pure ecstasy that waited. His eyes moved up to hers; she looked thrilled and full of lust and when she nodded her head encouragingly, it was all he needed before he slowly slid himself inside her warmth. 

She enveloped him entirely, and it wasn’t just because his cock was buried inside her; it was the way springs of her hair were somehow always touching him, the way her scent permeated his senses, how the softness of her body seemed to fit cosily beneath him, and he, again, thought of how lucky he was to be given the chance to really know her, to learn to love her and to be loved by her. He knew that there was the possibility that she might not ever love him, that he might not love her, but, at this moment, as his hips met hers, he believed that there was something already there, something that would continue to grow. 

He felt the smoothness of her legs, wrapping around his waist, and he picked up his speed, thrusting into her with more fervour. Her lips found him and she moaned into his mouth. He pushed deep into her, and, before he could stop himself, before he could try and hold off, he found himself immersed in the moment; he felt as if were drowning in her and he quivered as he came. He felt utterly embarrassed that she hadn't come and that he’d come so quickly, as he pressed his sweaty brow to her forehead he whispered, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. First time and all,” and he let himself laugh a little at his own expense.

Her head shook against him, “Don’t you dare apologise." There was a pause and she kissed his shoulder, before kissing him on the face—his chin, both cheeks, the tip of his nose and his forehead. They were tender kisses, ones that showed how she cared for him, how she enjoyed him, how she wanted to enjoy more and more of him. 

She pulled back slightly and said, "We have got a lot more sex to have in our future, anyhow. You can make up for it some other time.” She ended this sentence with a laugh and a soft swot to his bottom to let him know she was teasing. 

Looking down at her, a wry smile played on his lips, "Oh, you misunderstood. I still intend to make you come." He kissed her on the lips, and then her neck and her collar bones. He buried his face between her breasts, using one hand to squeeze and coax her nipple into hardening. Once it had pebbled, he found it with his mouth, letting his teeth nibble it just so. He felt her hips buck, her back arch, and he moved his hand down to her, wet with arousal and slick with his own come. He let his fingers curl inside her as he had the night before. Her nipple between his teeth, her cunt in his hand, he worked her until she came for him, and he glowed with delight when he heard his name spilling from his lips. 

Again, they fell asleep, this time they laid on their backs, their hands entwined. When they woke, it was nearing noon, and Hermione was insistent that she needed a shower. 

He listened to the taps turn on, to her stepping into the shower, and he thought of her in there—beads of water trailing down the arch of her back, the curve of her arse, and of the soap suds lathered in the brown curls between her thighs, and he was instantly hard. He got out of the bed and stepped into the bathroom, he cleared his throat before he asked, “May I join you?” 

“Of course,” she responded, not turning towards him, as she worked the conditioner into the ends of her hair. He stepped in and soaked in the sight of her full, round arse. She looked over her shoulder at him with a wry grin on her face.

He asked, "What's that look for?" 

Looking him up and down she said, “Never have I ever had sex in a shower.” 

He raised his eyebrows with grin, and stepped towards her, putting his hand on her hip and kissing her shoulder, sinking his teeth into her soft skin. She groaned and pushed her arse up against him. His cock was nuzzled pleasantly against the cheeks of her arse, and he let one of his hands roam to her front, his middle finger circling her clit, pressing roughly against it. As she pressed her body against him, the friction of her arse against his cock was delightful, and he was desperate to sink into her from this position. “May I fuck you like this?” His voice was muffled and deep against her neck. 

She pushed him back a little with her arse, making room so that she could rest her hands against the wall of the shower, her back arched beautifully, “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” 

He continued to make tiny tight circles on her clit before he wrapped his hand on his cock and guided it inside her—sinking into her. Both of his hands were placed on her hips and, unlike earlier, when he’d been slow and languid, now he was frantic and hungry for her. At this angle, she felt unbelievably tight around him, and the feel of her sex and the feel of her soft ass smacking against his hips was glorious. 

His fingers dug into her hips as he moved inside her, and the sound,  _ Merlin, the sound,  _ he thought, of his wet skin smacking against the slick soapy skin of her arse, made him feel heady with want. He fucked her hard, and moving a hand from her hip, he twisted and tugged on her nipple. He found that having come not that long before, he was able to keep his own orgasm at bay, determined to make his wife come. 

He pulled her close to him kissing her shoulder blade, and as he continued to work her nipples and bury his cock deep inside her. He felt her tighten around him, her legs tremble slightly and then with intensity, and then she cried out for him. He slowed as she came, barely moving inside her, and she pushed her body back against him and began to fuck him. She rocked her hips back onto his cock. He stood still and watched as she moved against him—that’s what did him in: the sight of her and her swollen, pretty pink cunt on his cock. His fingers gripped hard against her, and she continued to push her arse back against him until he was completely spent. 

Leaning against the wall of the shower, spent and sweaty, Draco laughed.

“What are you laughing about?” she asked, as she went back to working the knots out of her hair with her fingers. 

“This is bizarre. In a good way.” 

“What is?” He knew she knew what he was referring to, but he answered her anyway.

“That we seem to be...so compatible. I mean, very, very compatible. I supposed the Ministry knew what they were doing?”

“So it seems. You know, I confronted Kingsley about our match when I first got the letter."

"Oh…" his voice fell. 

She shook her head, "No. No. Listen. I thought there had maybe been a mistake. He told me...well, he told me that he ran the spells five separate times on each of us, and each time our lines found each other almost instantly. Magic knows.  _ Our _ magic knows. Our magic works."

He nodded in agreeance. He stepped towards her, his hand cupping her face, and he kissed her, letting his thumb graze her cheekbone tenderly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

He gazed into her eyes, "For marrying me.”

She found his hand and held it, "I’m glad it was you.” 

***

The pair finished showering and spent their evening casually eating and reading and chatting. As Hermione closed the book she was reading, Draco handed her a glass of champagne, there seemed to always be a chilled, full bottle available. She took it from him as he said, “Never have I ever had sex with my wife on this overtly gaudy and expensive couch.” 

Hermione, holding her hands out to her side, shrugged, “Me either.” 

“Why don’t we ruin it? It’s hideous, we’ll be doing them a favour.” 

“Oh? How do you suppose we ruin it, Mr Malfoy?” Her eyes shined with mischief as she took a drink from her glass.

He dropped down to his knees in front of her, resting his hands upon her thighs and edged them apart. With a smirk, he said, “I’m going to make you come all over it, Mrs Granger-Malfoy.” 


End file.
